Suffering
by Scarabsi
Summary: Veneziano has difficult choices to make in war, and in the periods outside of war. Who he is, and who he becomes; what else could he do? Warning: slight war themes.


**Author's notes:** This was written for a table challenge over at Livejournal. I wrote all of it a few months back, in a frenzy of happiness from having finished the other one (titled "Downfall," which you can find in my profile). Then for some reason or other I became self-conscious of it and never uploaded it, until now, when I discovered it sitting in my computer. I don't remember what was wrong with it, I really like it now, so. . . here it is!

It can be seen as kind of a sequel or prequel to Downfall, or it can be read as a standalone story. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Careful with war themes.

* * *

**SUFFERING**

* * *

"This is what you should have done from the beginning!" Romano whispered into Veneziano's ear, breath shaking. He held Veneziano so tightly that Veneziano could feel Romano's clavicle digging uncomfortably into him. Slowly, he let his eyes slide closed, and all the energy left him.

"He'll be devastated," Veneziano said.

Romano tightened his embrace. "Stop that! Who cares? It doesn't matter what he thinks!"

"He will be," Veneziano insisted. He felt tears coming to his eyes. "He's not like you think, Romano, you don't know him. . . H-he'll be heartbroken. . ."

Romano cupped Veneziano's chin in his hands and held him face-to-face. "It doesn't matter! Veneziano, look at me! We'll be safe. No more war. No more fear!"

A heavy knock came on their door, and both brothers recoiled from it. After a moment of silence, the knocking resumed. A deep, muffled voice came through it.

"Italy! What's happening? Tell me what's going on! Italy!"

"Fuck," Romano hissed, and gathered Veneziano into his arms. "Don't listen to him. We're safer without him."

Veneziano curled into a fetal position, arms clamped over his ears and eyes strained shut.

.

"Italy, what is the matter? You can confess to me."

Veneziano blinked fatigue from his eyes and awoke to a pair of purple irises merely inches away from his own. He sat up quickly to attention and France chuckled, leaning back in a rare display of respect for another's personal space. "Am I boring you with this talk of business?"

"No, not at all, never," Veneziano muttered absently. France raised a quizzical eyebrow at him as he shuffled through the papers on his desk, trying to look busy while he tried to hold onto his dream; what had he been thinking about? It felt important, somehow. "You wanted me to sign. . . ah, which was it. . . this one?" He squinted at it; looked like French. Even if it wasn't specifically what France was here about, he was here anyway, might as well. Veneziano absently added a crafty swirl to the lines at the bottom and handed it to France. "Mmm, then you gave me. . . ah. . ." He reached for a few others, but France's hand over his stopped him.

"How tired you must be! There is no need for that," France said warmly. Now that he had permission to not work, Veneziano slumped back into his chair and put his pen down with a long-drawn sigh. France leaned forward onto Veneziano's desk and squeezed Veneziano's hand. "I am concerned about you, Italy. You have changed. What of the boy who looked to me as his brother, who always smiled and loved living life, and wanted to bring smiles to others?"

"He grew tired of exhausting relationships with brothers," Veneziano moaned. "He was betrayed by his friends. Veh! Having a rug pulled out under one's feet is such a detrimental sensation!"

France released Veneziano's hand, his smile fell. "Now, my friend, you must understand the circumstances we were under. We did the best we could, truly, but negotiations do not just go to the winning parties-"

"But you managed to win yourself a fat slice of that Germany's debt," Veneziano grunted. "Veh. All I wanted was a little bit of Austria. A good brother would understand. All I wanted was to see him scrubbing my floors, being denied my food, being sent to my basement."

France winced and opened his mouth to reply, but Veneziano preempted him. "I _fought a war _for that right," he said, his fists balling reflexively into the formation for a broom handle. "I fought for you guys, like a tool, when you know I'm so sick of wars."

France's eyebrows drew together. "You could not have stayed out of that war, and you cannot stay out of this one."

Veneziano leaned his head back and rested it on the top of his chair, contemplating the state of his office ceiling, then the state of the heavens. "Romano, I can't," he called out.

France jumped in surprise and looked around the room. There was a muffled sigh, and the other half of Italy stepped out of the cupboard, brushing himself off primly, a steely glare already leveled at France as he went to stand beside his brother. "Damn it, you're supposed to be good with this guy," he growled to Veneziano.

"Well apparently I've changed," Veneziano countered. "And so has he. The France I knew would not treat me this way, veh."

Romano leaned against Veneziano's desk and glared France up and down, looking less and less impressed as he did. "He looks the same as always," he said, "a scumbag."

France crossed his arms and legs impatiently and frowned at Romano, then continued to address Veneziano as though Romano were not even there. "Fine. What is it you desire?"

"Don't act like you don't follow what happens at our house," Romano answered, and France was forced to acknowledge him. "Because you guys showed us what you were _really _like inside, we're going to focus only on supporting ourselves now. We're not your gullible little war dogs that you take out and put away for convenience. That would be a disgrace to. . ." and here the fire in Romano's eyes faltered and dimmed as his own name came back to haunt him again.

Feeling stronger now that he had support, Veneziano picked up where he had left off. "It would be a disgrace to our legacy," he said, and Romano sneered, turned his head away. "We have the potential to be better than this, veh."

France stared at him for a moment, and then his face slowly filled with fear. "You refer to your grandfather," he gasped, as though he could hardly believe his own words.

Veneziano fought his instinct to simper and comfort, and straightened his back, held his chin up. "There's no reason me and my brother could not be as great as Grandpa Rome," he said.

France sat frozen in his chair, and then stood up, excusing himself. "You have changed," he said, sounding fascinated and horrified. "I hardly recognize you, Italy. Perhaps we can hold this discussion at another time."

Veneziano put his face in his hands, and Romano put his hand on Veneziano's shoulder. When he heard France's voice speaking to ambassadors outside, Veneziano let out a loud moan and threw a handful of papers from his desk into the air.

"Shit, Veneziano, I'm not picking those up," Romano said, though with only half his usual vigor. Idly, he plucked one of the papers from the air; it was another stern letter from their new boss, outlining all of their political revisions. Romano scowled and ripped it into pieces.

"I hardly recognize myself," Veneziano said. He wrapped his arms around his head and willed himself to sleep, praying for this nightmare to end.


End file.
